


Mister Golden Sun

by nikkiscarlet



Series: Velvet Sunshine [1]
Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: 1984 dystopia, Curt and Mandy friendship, M/M, Swearing, oh so much swearing, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:12:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikkiscarlet/pseuds/nikkiscarlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur had known from the moment he opened his mouth that exposing Tommy Stone would bring about the end of his life. At least, the one he was used to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mister Golden Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [syllogismos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syllogismos/gifts).



“Hey, troublemaker.”

 Arthur just about jumped out of his skin.

 A hand fell on his shoulder to steady him as a throaty laugh blew a gentle cloud of smoke in his face. “Shit, man, chill out,” said the unmistakeable Curt Wild. “I just assumed a journalist’d be a little more observant. I’m sorry.”

Arthur disguised a sigh of relief as a half-hearted laugh. “I had a pretty good feeling someone was watching me. Just . . . couldn’t see who it was. Had in mind it was someone else.”

A train roared by. Not Arthur’s. They patiently waited for the echoes to die down before Curt spoke again.

“You all right?” he asked.

Arthur shrugged. “Yeah. You?”

Curt’s eyes were fixed on the duffel bag slung over Arthur’s shoulder. “Never better. Where you off to?”

Another shrug. This one even less genuine. “Life of a journalist. Always traveling. On my way to catch a bus, actually. How about you? Where, um . . . . ” He cleared his throat and gestured vaguely in all directions. “Where you headed?”

“Home. Had some errands to run.” Curt held up his hand, which was holding a couple of plastic shopping bags. After the month Arthur’d had, there was something almost absurd about standing now in a New York subway station with a former rock god showing him his groceries, but there it all was, and he was enough of a professional to keep a straight face.

“Well, nice running into you again,” he said. He really meant it, despite his hope their conversation wouldn’t last much longer. It wasn’t that he wanted to get rid of Curt – in an ideal world, it’d be quite the opposite – but this was a very bad, very public place for them to be chatting, and Arthur had been trying his best up to this point to slip away as quietly as possible.

“I’d toast to that, if we had some beer,” agreed Curt. Contrary to Arthur’s hopes, he planted himself right beside him, apparently waiting for the same train. Then he looked up at him again. “Wanna get one?”

Arthur shook his head, doing his best to convey his regret. “Would love to, but I can’t. I really do need to catch this bus.”

As he took a long drag of his cigarette, Curt eyed him in an uncomfortably probing manner. “Yeah? Where you goin’?”

He had to think about his answer, but in spite of the fairly obvious pause before he gave it, he tried for whimsical. Smirking a little and holding a finger to his lips, he said, “Secret assignment. Can’t say much about it.”

A smile of sorts stretched across Curt’s face, and Arthur was pretty sure he was chuckling, though he couldn’t hear it. His train was fast approaching now, and filling the underground with the noise of rumbling, rattling, shrieking metal. Once it had slowed to a stop, and the doors in front of them slid open, Arthur offered up a helpless shrug and made his way onto the train.

He hadn’t bothered saying farewell, though, because his suspicions ended up coming true. Curt filed on right behind him, and plunked himself down in the seat next to his.

“You’re a shitty liar,” said Curt, picking the conversation right back up. “Not that that’s a bad thing.”

“And you’re surprisingly persistent. And nosy. Have you thought about a career in journalism?”

Curt watched the train doors close. “I dunno, how are you liking it?”

Arthur didn’t answer. For a few minutes, they rode in somewhat awkward, but not altogether uncompanionable silence. Eventually, though, Curt asked in a barely-audible grunt, “Someone chasing you?”

Before answering, Arthur scanned their surroundings. There was a teenage girl listening to her Walkman with her eyes closed, an old man down at the front of the car who looked to be falling asleep, two women a little closer to them who were chatting excitedly, and a small family at the back of the car who looked too absorbed in their own world to be concerned with his.

“I’ve had reason to think maybe sticking around isn’t a good idea,” Arthur offered in a mumble, without actually looking at Curt. “And that it especially wouldn’t be a good idea to keep running into . . . for example, you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Curt nod in understanding. “You think maybe me sitting here leg-to-leg with you is probably exactly what whoever’s after you is looking to find?”

“I would certainly consider it interesting, if I were chasing me.”

“Yeah, but . . . the damage is already done, isn’t it? Your discovery’s hit the headlines, so who cares if you still occasionally socialize with some guy you tried to interview once? Doesn’t really change anything.”

With a shake of his head, Arthur finally returned eye contact with Curt. “It’s not about prevention anymore. It’s about retaliation. Punishment. And . . . look, when it comes to me, maybe I suffer or maybe I don’t. That’s the choice I made for myself and I’ll live with it. But I’m not going to drag you . . . or the former Missus S., or Cecil, or anyone else down with me. I figured out what I figured out even with you lot gently cautioning against me digging too deep. I don’t want anyone thinking you did otherwise.”

There was a softening in Curt’s gaze. “Aw,” he said. “Look at you, trying to be noble.”

“I just don’t want to make any more trouble for you than I already have.”

Leaning closer to Arthur with an impish little grin on his face, Curt said, “That’s sweet and all, but . . . . ” His voice became a theatrical whisper. “I’m Curt Fuckin’ Wild.” Then he nudged him. “I love trouble.”

Arthur chuckled, but there was little real mirth to it. “Be honest. You’re tired of it.”

“No, really,” said Curt. “Ever since it all came out, I’ve been hoping I’d run into you again. I wanted to shake the hand of the man who stuck it to the machine.” He held out his hand. Arthur looked at it, but didn’t take it.

“I was just being a shit, really. Just tossing out one cheeky little comment to spook ‘im. I didn’t think it would go further than that. I didn’t think it _could_ have.”

“But you’re not exactly sorry that it did?” Curt got a little smirk out of Arthur on that one. “Yeah. Me neither. So don’t worry about me, or any of the rest of us. Just come have a beer with me.”

“I have a bus—”

“Fuck your bus. I’ll buy you a new ticket later if you want. C’mon.” He stood up. “This is my stop coming up. Come with me.”

He could hear and feel their train slowing down, which caused his thoughts to begin racing. Deep down inside there was a fifteen-year-old version of him screaming for him to take Curt Wild’s offered hand. The rest of him, however, was desperately trying to drown that part of him out. Conflicting thoughts criss-crossed his mind. ‘There’s no time.’ ‘You’ve got to keep moving.’ ‘Does he remember?’ ‘Even if he does, who says he cares?’ ‘Is this a friendly beer or a _friendly_ beer?’ ‘Do I care either way?’ ‘How do you know you can trust him?’ ‘Why does he want to talk to you?’ ‘Why does he want to talk to _you_ of all people?’ ‘Just take the bus. The bus is your safe bet.’ ‘Does he understand how dangerous it would be?’ ‘Maybe he’s working with _them_.’ ‘Just disappear like you always do. It’s what you do best. No one will miss you.’

The train stopped, and the doors slid open. The little family at the back of the car and the two cheerful women shuffled out into the station. Curt waited.

“One beer?”

Curt smiled. “One beer.”

“You’ll buy me a new ticket?”

“If that’s what you want . . . though, I think I have a better idea.”

Arthur sighed, clasping Curt’s still-waiting hand with his own and getting to his feet. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you, mate.”

Apparently Curt really did want that handshake, because they did so before Curt released his hand and shoved him towards the doors with a satisfied grin.

The walk wasn’t long, but Arthur spent the entirety of it glancing over his shoulder and in all directions, worrying that someone might be tailing them, or watching from the rooftops, or any given window. It didn’t help that Arthur was uncomfortably familiar with the neighbourhood, and ultimately discovered that he’d already visited their final destination very recently.

It was the pub where he’d interviewed Mandy Slade.

“Are you sure you want to do this here?” he asked as Curt trotted blithely toward the property’s tiny parking lot.

“Yup,” was Curt’s only reply. This only fortified the paranoid part of Arthur that was convinced that Curt was working for Them after all. His pace slowed. He was seriously considering a cut-and-run.

Curt took notice of Arthur lagging behind, and doubled back, approaching him as gently as he could. “Look, you can leave if you want to, but if someone really is chasing you, they’ve probably been tailing you for a while by this point and know where you’re planning to go next. For all you know, they’ve already got someone waiting for you at the bus station. Arguably, you’re just as safe here as anywhere else.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me?”

Curt scratched the back of his head, looked over his shoulder at the pub, and turned back to Arthur. “The food’s real good,” he said.

Arthur sighed, and made for the pub entrance, at least until Curt grabbed his shoulder and guided him around the side of the building instead.

“Why?” was all Arthur could manage.

“Because,” grunted Curt as he fished in the right front pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a set of keys just as they reached the grey metal door near the back of the establishment. “I’m bringing in the groceries, and letting customers see that would be unseemly.”

At this, Arthur’s brow furrowed. “You . . . work here?”

Curt’s laugh at that came out in a snort. “I think if I tried, everyone would gang up and kill me before the end of the day. I do try to help out a little around the place, though. Seeing as I partly own it and all.”

“ . . . What?” That hadn’t turned up in any of Arthur’s research. His momentary bewilderment went only silently acknowledged with a wiggling of Curt’s eyebrows as he shoved the heavy door open with his shoulder.

“Okay,” Curt called as he strutted into the small kitchen, holding his shopping aloft. “I got what you wanted. And also a little something extra just for fun.” He looked over his shoulder at Arthur and winked.

The two employees working in the kitchen only briefly looked up at Curt before returning to their work, seemingly well aware that he wasn’t talking to them. The person he was calling for appeared a moment later, pushing through the kitchen door dressed all in black. She took no notice of Arthur, still lurking in the back doorway as he was, as her attention was focused entirely on Curt. Arthur, however, had to clench his jaw closed to keep from outright gawping at this woman he recognized ever so well. There was Mandy Slade, engaging in a surreally domestic scene with the very man who had arguably stolen her husband a decade previous, in the back of the pub where she’d told Arthur the whole sordid story less than a month ago.

“You got the paprika?” she asked Curt, gazing at him with the intense focus of someone administering a very important test.

“Yes, I got the paprika.”

“And the sour cream?”

“And the sour cream.”

“And the bread?”

“Rye and whole wheat.”

“And you gave them my bulk order?”

“Handed the paper right to Carlos like you asked. Shipment comes in on Monday.”

“And you were polite?”

“I might have uttered a friendly ‘fuck’ once or twice.”

“But you were nice?”

“Sweet as pie,” he promised, and sealed it with a kiss to her cheek.

With the flamboyant flourish she’d been so known for in her London party girl days, she threw her arms around Curt’s neck and returned his little peck with an exclamatory “Mwah!” of her own, then pinched his cheeks and declared, ‘That’s a good boy!” before taking the bags from his hands and inspecting them herself. “So, what was the extra thing you picked up?”

“It’s not in the bags,” said Curt.

When she looked up at Curt with wary curiosity, he tilted his head in the direction of the back door, and her gaze followed his gesture to Arthur. When she realized who it was, she shoved the bags back at Curt and, with a wide grin spreading across her face, approached him with arms outstretched. “Oh my God, let me hug you.”

Arthur wasn’t sure how to react to that, and so found her arms around him before he could even think to permit or deny her. Just as he’d collected himself enough to gently put his arms around her, she pulled back to smile up at him.

“I just want to say thank you for being the reason my ex is probably crying into one of his stupid rhinestone suits right now,” she said. “Curt and I both vowed that if we ever ran into you again, we’d invite you for drinks. You gave both of us a good, long, and much-needed laugh.”

“I’ll be honest,” he told her, “I was really just hecklin’ him. I figured all the press men surrounding him were too deep in his and Reynolds’ pockets to turn it into the latest pop culture scandal. Even my publisher wouldn’t have let me write about it before it went big, and we’re just a small independent.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Even now we’re staying pretty neutral on the subject. For obvious reasons. I dunno who it was that actually leaked it to the public. I was just tossin’ it to the wind.”

“Well, it could’ve been anyone with the right agenda,” said Mandy. “Even Reynolds’ own people, if Tommy was causing them problems.”

“Which the little diva probably was,” Curt added as he playfully stole a french fry from one of the platters the kitchen staffers were preparing. One of them, a pretty girl who looked to be a little younger than Arthur, slapped his wrist after the fact but didn’t exactly stop him from stealing another.

“I have my doubts about that, given everything they invested in keeping me from figuring it out in the first place.”

Mandy leaned on the counter beside her, wearing a tight, cynical smile. “Things can change _very_ quickly in showbusiness,” she said. “And in politics too, I’d imagine.”

Arthur shook his head. “I tend to think it was just an ambitious media man with something to prove. I know the types. I’ve met many of ‘em.”

“In any case,” said Curt, “whether his people were responsible for spreading the leak or not, as soon as it was out, Reynolds’d be all about helping it along so he could be quick about stepping in to condemn him for his immoral, youth-corrupting past and publicly disown him to make an example of him. Which, as we saw, he did. Election time’s coming up fast, man: he’s gotta keep an iron grip on his voter base by reinforcing those ‘traditional values’ they all love so much. It’s no skin off his sack if he loses one propaganda shithole. He’ll just take on another, cleaner-looking one.”

“Hey, man, we’re trying to stay in Health and Safety’s good books. Either clean that filthy mouth or get it out of the kitchen,” chided the other cook; a reedy-looking fellow who didn’t sound at all serious.

“Go fuck yourself, Denny,” Curt shot back, tossing a balled-up towel at his head.

“Seriously, though, stop touching the fries,” said the girl.

“Who are they for?” asked Curt.

“The Petersons.”

“Nah, they’re cool. So long as I’m not putting my dick on there, they wouldn’t care.”

Mandy took Arthur by the arm and guided him towards the kitchen’s opposite entrance, hooking Curt along the way. “Denny and Gina have a point. We’re in the way. Let’s go sit in a booth.”

The restaurant had been almost totally deserted when Arthur had first interviewed Mandy, but business wasn’t bad tonight. They weren’t packed by any stretch, but there were enough patrons to keep the bartender and two servers busy. Mandy scooped up three beers from behind the bar before settling the three of them down in one of the smaller booths. Mandy nestled in beside Curt, and across from Arthur, which only served to remind Arthur of how weird he found the whole situation.

“When I tracked you down to this place originally,” he said to her, trying to pretend he wasn’t noticing Curt draping his arm over her shoulders. “I didn’t realize you ran the place. I’d just read you were making an appearance here.”

Mandy chuckled. “Yeah . . . it was worth a shot. Tuesday nights are always slow, and with so many anniversaries surrounding Brian happening around that time, I figured it might be worthwhile to try to use whatever star power my name might’ve still had left to draw in some new patrons. I figured, try it with me first, and if that didn’t work, we throw Curt at ‘em.” She rolled her eyes. “Obviously, though, nobody’s really interested in the ex-wives of their pop idols, except for writers like you looking to dig up dirt.” She looked over at Curt. “’Course, now that word’s out about Tommy, I’m a little curious to see what would happen if I tried it again.”

Curt shrugged and took a swig of his lager. “Go for it, if you want. I told you I’m not gonna be your dancing monkey anyway. We should just close on Tuesdays. Give everyone a day off.”

“We could use the money.”

“Yeah, if we could make it, that’d be great. Instead we’re hemorrhaging it into staff wages and utilities on days when the place is fuckin’ dead.”

“Which is why we should innovate, Curt,” Mandy said, testily.

Curt held up his hands – though, Arthur noted, without actually raising his arm from around her. “Hey, do what you fuckin’ want, I’m not stopping you. I’m the silent partner, here. You’re running the show.”

Mandy returned her full attention to Arthur, and took on an explanatory tone. “The business is under my name – my _legal_ name. I went back to my maiden name after I divorced Brian, and Mandy’s not really my first name. Not on paper, anyway.”

“It’s her middle name,” added Curt.

“Well, it’s adapted from it,” she corrected. “Anyway, what happened was, a little while after Curt and I first moved back to the States, we were renting the apartment upstairs. It was an older couple who owned the place and, a couple years after we moved in, they were looking to sell. We’d become pretty attached to our apartment and to this place and the people, so . . . well, we looked into it, pooled our money together, and . . . bought the building and the business with it.”

“I must admit, I am a little surprised that the two of you are . . . y’know. Living together.” Arthur spoke carefully, not wanting to infer or imply anything about the nature of their current or past relationship.

Curt and Mandy exchanged glances layered with a kind of painful complexity that Arthur knew to be beyond his depth. “Curt and I shared a unique experience,” said Mandy. “One that few other people in the world, if any at all, could ever fully understand. We’re kind of tied together by that, I think. We both loved the same man. We were both burned hard because of it. We both lived an incredible magic because of it. And, thanks to mutual friends . . . we helped each other heal from it.”

“It was Jack who pushed us together,” said Curt. “He claimed he wanted me to look out for his little Mandy since she was moving back to America, and meanwhile told her that I would probably die a week after I got here and so she should probably keep an eye on me. So we sort of . . . grudgingly obliged him. And then along the way, we realized we actually kind of love each other.”

“He’s the big brother I never, ever wanted,” said Mandy with a subtle wink.

“And she is the little sister I probably deserve.” Curt kissed the side of Mandy’s head.

Bewildered, Arthur shook his head in hopes of jostling all this new information into a sensible place in his mind. “Why didn’t any of this come out when I talked to either of you?”

Mandy shrugged, though the raise of her eyebrows and tilt of her head implied a certain cattiness. “Story wasn’t about us, was it? It was about Brian Slade. I gave you everything relevant to Brian Slade.”

Curt also shrugged, but this was genuine apathy. “It didn’t come up. You didn’t tell me about any of your roommates, either, so why should I get weird?”

“I ain’t got roommates,” Arthur felt compelled to say before returning to business. “What was the number I kept calling you at, then? The number for this place is different.”

“Two lines,” said Curt. “The one in the phone book’s for customers to find. The one you were apparently given for me is our private number for friends and family, and we don’t give it out to many people.” He gave a bitter chuckle. “Well, I say private . . . . ”

Arthur echoed his hollow snicker. Privacy was an illusion at best under Reynolds, as his failed attempts to contact Curt by phone had proven.

Not to mention his current situation. Granted, that was a little bit different. Having been reminded of it, he looked down at his bottle. About a third left in it, but if he could empty that quick enough, he’d still have time to catch his bus.

“Anyway, it was good to get a last drink with the two of you. It’s good to know you’re both looking out for each other, it really is. If I ever actually do get to write about it all – y’know, in the far-off, distant future when we’d all be too old for it to matter anyway – I’m gonna include this bit. ‘Cause it’s not just about Brian. It never was. It was about all of you.”

Mandy’s eyes held that same sort of semi-patronizing softness for him that they had when they were finishing up their first interview, but Curt didn’t let it get to goodbyes.

“H-hey hey-HEY,” he snapped, jabbing his finger first at Arthur and then at his seat. “I see what you’re doing. It’s not time to leave yet. I told you I’d buy your bus ticket if it’s what you really want, but it’s not time for that yet.”

Wearily, Arthur started with a “Look—”, but Curt didn’t let him finish.

“No. You’re gonna sit here and laugh with me and Mandy at our sell-out ex’s misfortune, and you’re gonna tell us what you’re running from.”

“I think it’s pretty obvious what I’m running from.”

“What, Reynolds? Look, he might be a fuckin’ fascist oppressor, but he doesn’t have time for pettiness like you’re thinking of. So you’re the reason he had to find some new candy for the masses. Big deal. There’s tons of shiny, inoffensive puppets out there waiting to fill Tommy Stone’s shoes. It’s a minor annoyance for him. He might have put the effort in to keep _all_ of us from letting it slip before, because he didn’t want to have to do the damage control, but now that it’s out there and he’s already doing it? Who gives a fuck? He’s got bigger fish to fry than you.”

Sliding his beer from one hand to the other, Arthur was smirking. “I’m not running from Reynolds. Not exactly, anyway. I mean, I am planning to leave the country, but he’s not the one after me.” He looked each of them directly in the eye. “It’s Tommy. Has been from the start.”

The mood of the table darkened slightly. Even if Curt had been right about Reynolds being above petty revenge, everyone at the table knew it was safe to say that Tommy Stone wasn’t. “What makes you think it’s him?” asked Mandy.

“Exactly what Curt was saying,” said Arthur. “But it goes further than that. Reynolds wasn’t the one doing the prevention work. He just afforded Tommy the resources to do it himself. Those agents they planted with you: they were hired by him. Or his manager, maybe. Either way, I fucked things up for _him_ , and it’s _his_ people who want me to pay for it. He saw me with his own eyes, and he knows I was working on a story. Even if I wasn’t the one who put paper to press, I still got word out there. He might not have the backing of the President anymore, but he still has money and connections. He’ll use ‘em.”

Curt’s gaze was steely. “And has he?”

“ . . . Some strange things are happening. Nothing I could prove in court.” It was all Arthur could offer.

“So you’re flying back to England because a pop star might be haunting you?” Curt smirked slightly.

Arthur shook his head. “England’s no better than here these days. My ticket’s to Canada.”

“Tell you what.” Curt looked at Mandy. There was a brief and silent exchange between them, as if Curt was asking her permission for something before he spoke next. Apparently he got it. “Don’t go to Canada just yet. Stay here with us for a bit. Lay low. Wait for things to settle down, then see where to take things from there.”

“I really appreciate the offer, but—”

“We’ve got plenty of food,” said Mandy. “We only have two bedrooms, but Curt usually falls asleep on the couch anyway, so you could take his room. It’s no trouble for us. You’d be our guest.”

“Hey. Think of it this way. You’re in trouble for having information you at least partly got from us. He probably figures, the last place you’d want to run to is right back to the people who gave you that information. Right? It’d be too stupid.” Curt smirked. “So be stupid. He’ll keep running right by you until he gets tired and gives up to go rebuild his career. Again.”

Arthur was pretty sure that wasn’t how it would work at all. “I’d really rather not drag you further into this than you already are,” he said.

“We can handle ourselves,” said Mandy. “Especially with him.” She reached across the table and laid her fingers gently over his. “Darling, you don’t have to go it alone.”

Arthur felt his eyes sting for a moment, but blinked it away. “You’re very kind, but—”

“We’re very bored,” said Curt. “You would be doing us a favour.”

“I’m really not very exciting.”

Despite Arthur’s best efforts, he couldn’t pull his gaze away from Curt’s, whose eyes stayed locked on his as he told him, “I think that’s a matter of perspective.”

Arthur really hoped he wasn’t blushing. As it was, he couldn’t think of any other way to wiggle out of this politely, and in spite of himself, he wasn’t so sure he really wanted to. It would hardly be the first time he’d roomed with rock stars, but it still felt like a rare and sacred privilege being offered to him by these golden-haired, ethereal beings from a more beautiful time.

“I guess if you really want, I can stay for a day or two,” he mumbled. “Maybe work in the kitchen, if you like. I’m not a great cook, but I could wash dishes.”

“You’re staying a week, and you’ll do no such thing,” said Curt.

Arthur did end up staying a full week. Though, he worked in the kitchen, in spite of Curt’s protestations and Mandy’s insistence that he didn’t have to. He wanted to feel useful. Besides, with no work to go to and fear keeping him indoors, he really didn’t have much to do around Curt and Mandy’s flat, especially once he’d finished tidying it up for them. Which they’d also shamefacedly protested.

He quite enjoyed himself for that week, in all honesty, even if the work he made for himself was a little tedious. Watching Mandy and Curt in such an intimate environment soon turned from a treat for the journalist to a comfortable warmth for a friend. The two bickered quite regularly, even to the point of screaming at times, but the undercurrent of love between them remained strong, and always meant that they were cuddled together on the couch by end of day. This flat, with all its noise, chaos and passion, was a bright and sunny alternative to the grey existence Arthur had spent so much of his life stuck in: at his parents’ house; in the various flats he’d lived in both in England and New York; at work from day to day. It wasn’t quite like being back in the glitter days with the Flaming Creatures, but it still felt like Curt and Mandy had carved a tiny bubble out of the plastic world and filled it with little fragments of the one Arthur remembered. Dirt and silk and sunshine and smoke. And they always had music playing. Always. It soothed his soul.

Until the day the power went out.

It was only out for them, so it wasn’t a black-out. Mandy was certain she’d paid the bill. While she ran out to make some calls (the phones weren’t working either. Curt insisted he’d paid that bill, too), Curt and Arthur sat in the now-deserted bar, lighting candles.

Arthur was silent, but tense. He could feel Curt’s eyes on him every couple of minutes. When the quiet became too much, Curt tried to fill the void.

“You think this is him.”

Arthur didn’t quite reply, but he returned Curt’s gaze and his mouth twitched a little. They returned to silence until Mandy burst back through the door.

“My bank account is fucking frozen,” she growled. “It sounds like yours is, too. All our checks are bouncing.”

Curt clapped his hands briefly over his mouth and nose before slowly wiping them down his face. “Fuck,” he said. “I thought you were just being paranoid.” He looked up at Arthur. “I’m sorry.”

Arthur shrugged. “I’d have thought the same thing in your shoes, truthfully.”

“I can’t believe he would do this,” said Mandy. Her eyes sparkled slightly in the candle light as her head shook from side to side. “I can’t believe he would actually do this. He couldn’t just leave us the fuck alone.”

“It’s my fault,” said Arthur. “I dragged you into this. I tracked you both down and—”

“No.” Mandy cut him off. “Arthur, it’s not your fault, okay? You were doing your job. We were living our lives, and _he had to keep fucking them up, didn’t he?!_ ” She screamed the last bit to the ceiling, perhaps wondering if the ‘he’ in question had ears planted there.

“I fucked up his,” said Arthur. “If I go, if I just go and face up to him, and ask him to leave you be—”

“Fuck that, you shouldn’t have to,” said Curt. “Fuck him.”

“What do we do?” moaned Mandy. “This is a disaster. This place already isn’t doing well—”

“So fuck it. Maybe Arthur was right to begin with. Maybe we should leave.”

“Curt, that’s—”

“Just for a little bit,” said Curt. “Not forever. We don’t give up on this place, we just leave it for a while until Tommy gets back to his own business.”

“And what about everyone working here?”

“They take care of it. Gina and Denny can handle things while we’re gone. They have Randy’s number: he can help them with the financial stuff in the interim. We keep in touch with them over the phone, wherever we stop.”

“Curt, they’re barely in their twenties!”

“So what? They can handle it.”

Mandy just exhaled and shook her head. She was at a loss.

“We could go to Canada,” Arthur said, trying to be helpful.

“Fuck Canada,” said Curt. “Brian already pushed us outta his country, he’s not gonna chase us out of ours now. Let’s just . . . let’s just get on the road. We’ll pile into my car and just drive.”

“Is your car even road-worthy?” Mandy grumbled.

“She needs a little air in the tires, but she’s all right.”

“This sounds an awful lot like running away from our problems,” said Mandy.

“Not running away,” Curt assured her. “Regrouping. We’ll still take care of our shit, okay? We’ll get Randy on the line and have him go over the legal shit. And in the meantime we’ll be moving targets. I dunno about you, but if Brian’s stooped to this point, I don’t think he’s gonna stop until we’re destroyed. This is a petty prank in comparison to how he feels he’s been injured. He’ll want us on the streets.”

“I’m so sorry,” Arthur repeated.

“It’s not your fuckin’ fault, Arthur.” Curt approached him, and grabbed his face with both hands. “It’s not your fault, okay?”

Arthur didn’t believe him, but the warmth of Curt’s hands and gaze soothed him slightly. He kept his mouth shut.

“We got some cash. We take that. We call Gina and tell her everything that’s going on and then we get the fuck out and drive.”

Mandy stared at Curt for a long moment. Then she flew from the room, disappearing into the office just off to the side of the kitchen. They heard some clattering and swearing, then a moment or two of pregnant silence. Finally, she re-emerged, carrying a small, steel cash box.

“Well, thank God nobody’s been in the safe,” she said. “Let’s go.”

“Are you two sure about this?” asked Arthur. “I mean . . . you sure it wouldn’t be better if I just go try to find him and talk to him myself? He’d probably be satisfied and leave the two of you alone.”

Mandy and Curt, both about a third of the way to the stairs at this point, stared at him a moment. Then they laughed.

“Honey, just come with us and grab your stuff,” said Mandy.

“You sure you want me to go—”

“ _Yes_ ,” they both barked in exasperation.

“ . . . But where are we even gonna go?”

“I dunno,” shrugged Curt as he pulled Arthur along with him and Mandy up the stairs. “Santa Fe?”

“ . . . I don’t want to go to Santa Fe.”

“Ehhh, we’ll drive vaguely in that direction and see what happens.”

Packing happened in a blur. Arthur didn’t need to do much, anyway: he’d been living out of his duffel bag and hadn’t bothered to unpack. All he had to do was shove some of his dirty laundry back in along with the book he’d been reading. He wasn’t waiting long for Mandy and Curt, though, before they rushed him back down the stairs, outside, and into a brown station wagon parked out back. The car was dinged up and smelled funny and was oh so very Curt. They tossed their bags into the back and piled in.

Once they’d all settled into their seats, though, there was a pause, as if all three of them were silently wondering, “how did my life get to this point?”

“I hear Canada’s lovely this time of year,” Arthur tried again, from the back seat.

“Fuck Canada,” Curt and Mandy shot back in unison before Curt started the ignition.

As the car pulled out onto New York’s busy streets and Mandy’s pub grew smaller behind them, Arthur watched it shrink. It wasn’t the first time he was running from someplace, but it was the first time he was practically dragged along by someone else. It didn’t really feel the same as the other times. He looked into the rear-view mirror, knowing in some sense that Curt kept looking at him through its reflection. He was right. When the image of Curt’s eyes locked on his again, they winked at him.

Arthur had no idea where they were going, but he felt like he was already home.

**Author's Note:**

> To syllogismos: Hey, there! I have to apologize: I had a different version of this story posted originally. It was a condensed version that was "good enough" to meet the deadline, but I was unhappy with it, and I didn't think you would be happy with it, either. Unfortunately, writing this expanded version took longer than I'd hoped, especially because I'd been roped into editing two other Yuletide stories for some friends of mine. I ended up posting the edited version of this story about an hour after the reveal, but I really hope this one is more to your liking, and gives you reason to smile this Yuletide. I was hoping to cover even more in this story to match it up a little more exactly with Ewan McGregor's headcanon, since my own headcanon matches his pretty closely, but I'm thinking instead that I'd like to attach to this fic a promise to you that there will be sequels, because a good friend and I would like to make a series of this with multiple fics covering multiple stories within this headcanon-universe. Thank you for requesting this prompt, thank you for loving this fandom, and again I'm sorry if you saw the first version I didn't like. Happy, happy Yuletide, and much love!


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